Page 24 of Fierce Highland Magic

"I was enjoying it."

She said nothing.

"Thistles are a complicated symbol in this particular jurisdiction," I said, which was true, and which was also the most convenient lie I could construct on short notice. "I was merely noting that you have chosen an accessory with... implications."

"I didn't choose it."

"Then someone chose it for you."

"Something," she said. "I'm not convinced there was anyone involved."

The cold in my chest deepened. I did not let it reach my face.

"How mysterious," I said lightly. "We shall add it to the list of things to investigate after dawn, assuming dawn arrives and assuming either of us is still capable of investigation."

Lyra studied me.

I let her. It was easier than speaking.

Finally, she nodded—not in agreement, but in acknowledgment that she had seen the door I was holding shut and was choosing, for now, not to force it open.

"Fine," she said. "Keep your secrets."

"I intend to. They are my most valuable possessions."

A bell rang.

Once.

The sound came from somewhere deeper in the market.

It wasn't loud. It did not need to be.

The note passed through the tents and stalls, through the ruined kirk wall, through the wet cobbles beneath my boots. Every lantern flame in sight bent toward the sound.

Then the market went still.

The fox-faced vendor lowered his scale.

The memory vendor bowed her silver head.

A dancer in a gown of floating blue petals stopped with one bare foot raised above the ground.

From the darkness beyond the thoroughfare came the measured scrape of wheels.

And a voice.

"That's three tonight," it said.

The voice was thin and old and carried strangely, as if it had sounded beside my ear and at the far end of the market at once.

"Three."

The bell gave one final shiver.

My hand closed at my side. I didn't move.

I had learned long ago that flinching only encouraged the market. Yet the sound found its way beneath my ribs anyway, striking each old mark in turn.